Better to Be Loved
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: It was good to be feared. It had always served him well. But, as he watched her disappear through the door and into the whispering snow, and the span of his life stretched out before him, he acknowledged that it would have been better to be loved.
1. Chapter 1

_This story is dedicated to sydneynr, who planted the idea in my head._

_I take and use the information given in the film—not speculations about deleted scenes. _

_Enjoy!_

_VVVVV_

_Better To Be Loved_

_Alydia Rackham_

_1_

"_Tell me about Bane! Why does he wear the mask…?"_

_V_

The crisp wind gusted through the upper branches of the ancient oaks, sending their leaves tumbling down to rustle around Bane's booted feet. He stood alone, unarmed, the collar of his thick coat turned up against the chill. The shadow of young night hid his great frame amongst the leaning grave-markers—weathered stones that huddled at the base of the darkened Wayne Manor. And he gazed, fixed, at the single window that bore light.

It was unique light. Deep and flickering. Not electric, and certainly not from a lamp or candle. It glowed from a wood fire, in a broad mantel. Warm, quiet light. Perfect to thaw the bones after being soaked by an icy autumn rain.

Bane shifted, his brow furrowing against the mask, as his breath became a little too loud in his ears.

He knew where she was, and what she was doing. She had told him her plan, clearly and succinctly, her bright eyes flashing to his only once, to see that he understood. He had wordlessly nodded.

And after she had safely set off, he had followed her.

No one ever asked him questions, so when he left the central League room within the Gotham sewers without a guard or weapon, he did so without interruption.

And now he stood upon Bruce Wayne's green and untamed land, outside in the night air, watching the firelight blush against the glass of that one window.

He knew her plan.

He knew what she was doing.

Bane's breathing hurt him.

He ducked his head and swallowed—a dry convulsion.

He turned sharply, tugging at the vest strapped around his chest, and swept back into the night.

He would be dealing with Bruce Wayne soon enough.

BBBBB

Bane remembered his face before the mask. He had caught sight of it a few times in still pond water, windows, and polished metal. The reflection had always struck him as one belonging to a proud, handsome man—one with noble, hard features and wild, dark hair.

Then had come the prison. And the gnawing plague that had cost him his wild, dark hair.

But that same prison had brought him Talia. Little Talia, with her eyes like blue flame—whose silent glance or quiet word healed like a balm. A blooming flower in a pit of bones.

She would sit next to him on the stone, like a little nymph, staring up at the circle of stars and the silver moon that walked among them. And Bane taught her the names of the figures in the stars; and her pointed, wistful questions made him smile. For he was still a very young man, then—and hope burned hot within his chest.

Then came that black day—the day when the fumbling doctor neglected to lock her cell. When the other inmates, mad with vice and violence, had broken in and torn Talia's mother apart.

They had almost done the same to Talia.

But they had not succeeded.

And _that _had cost him everything else.

BBBBB

Bane sat on the wooden floor in a lost corner of a fortress—a fortress that clung to a mountainside in a forgotten corner of the world.

He was not a prisoner. The broad, carved door to his left hung open, and a long, half-lit hallway lay beyond. A tray of food sat next to his sandaled feet. He stared ahead of him, at the blank wall. At nothing. His arms rested on his bent knees. He blinked—his eyelashes brushed the bandages that covered his mouth and nose all the way up to his lower eyelids. More bandages hugged his forehead and wrapped around his bare head and neck.

What did they mean by setting bread and cheese and meat and water down next to him like this? He swallowed. He was thirsty, but again, what could be done about that?

The League of Shadows had found him because Ra's al Ghul's wife had been a prisoner in that hell. Many of the inmates who had killed the woman and split Bane's face were dead by the time the infamous warriors had repelled down into the pit—Talia had made her escape years ago. Bane had no idea, even now, why he had been spared by these lethal fighters. They had brought him to this fortress, given him a room and a pallet—and, while he had still been delirious from neglect, they had given him "medical attention."

They had tried to repair his face, his throat, his head. Tried to remove and reform years of hardened scar tissue, and smooth over the jagged marks left behind by clumsy stitch-work. Instead, they had rendered his left cheek immobile, the inside of his mouth nearly useless with pain, and his lips lacerated. The only difference seemed to be that they had straightened his nose—stopping its perpetual bleeding—before covering his whole face with bandages.

And they were not an overly-compassionate lot. Bane sensed that they had done what they were willing to do, and if he could not find a way to feed himself—well, so be it.

He knew this. But he also knew that trying to force food or even water past his broken lips and down his torn throat was impossible. He would rather die.

Footsteps.

Footsteps in the hallway.

He blinked again, slowly. That was odd. Usually, the ninjas made no sound when they walked. And these footsteps sounded light, but deliberate.

Feminine.

His throat spasmed—he frowned, but couldn't bring himself to turn his head.

A slight, winsome figure entered the edge of his vision. Then, it moved around and stood before him, in the wash of grey light coming in from the window back behind his head.

He lifted his eyes, and looked into hers.

Her eyes, like blue flame.

Talia.

But she was tall, now. Tall and strong, with long, chestnut hair. He recognized her face, but it had gained maturity, beauty. She wore simple, woven clothes and soft-soled boots. She was still quite young, but she was enough of a woman that the sight of her pierced Bane straight through the heart.

He stopped breathing and stared, stricken.

She stood still for a moment in front of him, then tilted her head. Her flawless features sharpened as her dark eyebrows drew together.

"Bane?"

His jaw moved—his tongue tried, and his lips parted to say her name in answer.

He couldn't.

Agony flooded him.

Her bright eyes flashed.

"What did they do to you?" she murmured thoughtfully. And she stepped up to his side, knelt down right by his left hip, and took hold of the edge of the bandage at his throat.

If anyone else had even _moved _to do this, Bane would have ripped them in half—even if it did cause his heart to burst the next instant.

But _her _touch—firm and gentle—Bane yearned toward it, toward _her_. He could feel her warmth as she rested her hip against his and began pulling the long bandage loose, unwinding it from around his neck. He sat up, aching, and leaned toward her, lowering his head as his brow knotted. He let his knees relax, straightening his legs out on the floor, his hands falling limp to his lap.

Sometimes, the bandage caught on dried blood and he would flinch—but her careful fingers worked it loose, and lingered upon his throat in a way that calmed him. She edged closer to him as she used both hands to unwrap the linens around his head—once, his forehead bumped hers. She said nothing the whole time, and Bane's eyes drifted shut—lulled by the rhythmic motion of the bandage in her hands.

The wrappings eventually came loose of his lips, then his ears, his nose, his forehead, and then fell free altogether.

Bane sat as he was, eyes closed—feeling her run her glance all across his scars and new wounds. For a long while, she stayed still.

"Do you know," she finally said. "That my father has commanded that no man inside this castle shall help you to eat, drink, dress, walk or fight. Upon penalty of death."

Bane swallowed again.

She leaned even nearer to him, and lowered her voice to a confidential tone.

"So I would say it is very lucky that I happen to be a girl."

Bane blinked—

And she took his face in her hands.

His head came up. His startled eyes met hers—she gazed back at him steadily, defiantly.

He could feel every one of her fingers upon his skin—her thumbs lay across two of his deepest scars. Her lovely mouth formed a small smile as she watched him.

"And soon, you will be the strongest of them all."

Bane could not speak.

Then, she drew his face toward hers. His eyes reflexively flickered shut…

And she pressed her lips to the soft, untouched skin of his left eyelid.

Tears spilled down Bane's cheeks. They trailed over the backs of her fingers, burning him as they went. She kissed him again, just below his eye—and it felt as if someone was opening up his heart with a knife.

He could do nothing but tilt his head toward her, and when she withdrew an inch, lay the side of his head against hers. They remained there for a long while, not speaking.

Then, at last, she sat back, studying him. She nodded once, and ran her thumb across his lower lip.

"I know it will hurt," she said. "But you will drink some water today."

Bane blinked. More tears fell. But he did not fight her. And as she brought the metal cup to his lips, the icy liquid seared his throat—and her blue eyes held him steady—he thought that, perhaps, he might rather live after all.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

_What a lovely response! Thank you, and keep enjoying!_

_VVVVV_

_2_

"_An old mistake…"_

_V_

Talia's prophecy came true.

She stayed beside Bane day and night, feeding him, changing his bandages, helping him to lie down and to stand up. Everything she said to him carried a potent cocktail of compassion and challenge—challenge that heated his blood and made him determined to meet it. She nursed him doggedly, with an air of open defiance; and when Bane made noticeable progress in his healing, she flaunted it in front of the other members of the League, the young apprentices—and even her father.

Bane could sense in every glance, every movement he made during his rare visits to this particular Romanian base, that Ra's al Ghul resented Bane's presence amongst his elite, invisible fighters. He thought him weak, and handicapped. But al Ghul indulged his daughter, because he was helpless to resist her.

So Bane took this opportunity, and al Ghul's displeasure, and transformed _it_ into a challenge as well.

Together, Bane and Talia contrived a device to help him breathe and to hold the structure of his cheekbones. It covered his nose and mouth—much of the front of his face—and strapped across the top and sides of his head. Many a late night, the two of them stayed awake perfecting and tweaking their invention, making certain it was tight enough to do its work, yet not uncomfortable or hindering for him. And they both rejoiced when one morning, just past midnight, Talia put it on him and secured it, and Bane drew the first deep, painless, easy breath he had taken in years.

After that, they constructed a thick back-brace for him, to enable him to build the muscle around his injuries without damaging himself further.

Soon, under Talia's relentless attention, and with the help of his breathing mask and brace, Bane's broken body turned a corner—and flourished. He was able to abandon the cane he had been forced to lean upon for so long, and walk under his own power. Shortly after that, Talia pulled him in, step by step, to the increasingly-rigorous training regimen expected of the new members of the League of Shadows. Together, they ran through the rocky, forested grounds; they climbed the castle walls, they learned archery and gun-fighting and hand-to-hand combat. They sparred on the stone parapets with the other members, under the careful eye of the junior masters, then lingered in the gray twilight after each session to practice with each other. Talia became lithe, light on her feet, wickedly quick, and a brilliant strategist. And Bane spent even more time building his body.

He adopted Talia's single-minded relentlessness as his own, beating his body into submission until it did as he wished. He became broad and muscular—powerful, mighty and lightning-fast as a grizzly bear. He mastered every skill and every test of strength the junior masters could propose, and demanded more.

Gradually, the other members of the League and the apprentices stopped stepping out of his way and staring at him. One by one, they would come to watch him train and test, and soon began cheering for him as he threw down obstacle after obstacle. They feared him, yes—but it was a wise, admiring fear. During group exercises, they each wanted him nearby, and if he was placed in opposition to them, they winced and muttered complaints under their breath. When he gave them advice or insights that could help them hone their skills, they always listened, and put his words immediately into practice.

All the while, Talia grew in grace and beauty beside him. And the League did not fear her—they loved her. She darted in and out of their solemn meetings like a sparrow through a window, causing every man to look up in surprise and wonder even as she disappeared, laughing, through a door. She was comfortable and easy among them; happy, fiercely competitive, driven and lively, conversing with each member in turn, making him feel immensely important and unique. But always, though he hardly knew how, she would come to light beside Bane—and this was where she remained the longest. And she did not flatter him, wink, chat archly or laugh. When she was with Bane, she rested. She calmed, gathered herself, became thoughtful—and listened. Countless nights beside the broad fireplace, they talked of the day's events, of what was to come; their honest opinions, their dislikes, Talia's adventures after escaping The Pit—and the lies, the frame-up, the corrupted governing and injustice that had landed an innocent Bane there in the first place. And as the months and years passed thusly, Bane cautiously began to allow himself to believe that he had found the place where he belonged.

Then, Ra's al Ghul returned—and did so with a fiery purpose.

The tall, stoic, black-clad man gathered all of his followers in the grand wooden hall and informed them of their next great mission—a mission that rivaled the tasks of old, when the League of Shadows was required to bring down Constantinople, Rome, and London. And Bane never forgot the name of the city that rang through the hall—the city that Ra's al Ghul now condemned:

Gotham.

Ra's al Ghul brought them evidence: newspapers, magazines, videos and books; all of which told a story of a city so vile, so corrupt, so backward and filled with slithering vice and crime that it made both Bane and Talia silent and sick. Each day, al Ghul would bring to them another tale of woe and horror from the underworld or back alleys of Gotham, and at night Bane would lie awake, images flashing through his head, his skin crawling. Such dishonesty and back-handedness had put him in that Pit. Such powerful, careless men had been the instruments of his demise, the cause of the wounds and scars that covered him and would never, ever fade. And such men _ruled _this city, this Gotham, while nothing was being done about it. Nothing. The police force was all corrupt, the judges could be bribed, the mob leaders could shoot and kill in broad daylight and suffer no consequences. No one stood up, no one fought back. It was clear, from every bit of reading Bane and Talia could do, and every question with which they plied her father, that the whole of Gotham had surrendered to its rotten, reeking nature, content with it in all its forms, and keen to spread it elsewhere.

The League of Shadows was the only thing standing in the way of that.

Therefore, in his parting address to the fighters in this castle before he left for yet another fortress in Tibet, Ra's al Ghul issued a challenge:

"Prepare yourselves. When I return, I will choose those apprentices among you whom I find worthy. You shall be branded with our mark, becoming full members of our brotherhood, and when the time eventually comes, you shall accompany me to Gotham to lay siege, exact justice and restore balance."

From that day on, Talia and Bane threw themselves even more earnestly into their training. In the evenings, they talked endlessly of Gotham, and the need to right the countless wrongs done therein. They perfected their bodies and their minds, eagerly looking forward to the day Ra's al Ghul would return—hoping with everything in them that they would be deemed ready, and allowed to assist in this venture.

Then, their solitude, routines and patterns were suddenly invaded.

Hailing from all corners of the world, six new recruits arrived at the fortress, accompanied by official documents from Ra's al Ghul himself—recruits hand-selected, and ready to pledge their lives to the League of Shadows. And one of these recruits was a young, strikingly-handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed young man named Amilius. He had a ready smile, a wit like the lash of a whip, and a reckless, devil-may-care attitude that reminded Bane of a spark in a dry forest.

Talia was instantly taken with him.

Before Bane knew what to make of it or what to do, Talia was missing from his side. And, as naturally and familiarly as if it had _always _been her custom, she walked, talked, sat and laughed at the side of Amilius. Amilius became just as instantly attached to her, and the two of them could not be separated during the waking hours, regardless of their activities. Bane was left to train alone, and to stand in dark corners watching her—and eyeing Amilius with something that he vaguely recognized as _hate_.

Amilius excelled. He was a brilliant fighter—heedless and headlong. Brazenly-confident, snarky, sarcastic and taunting. He could not best Bane—but neither would he allow himself to be defeated. He would never linger in a fight if it was clear he had the disadvantage. He would always find a way to slip out of the noose, whilst somehow retaining his dignity—as if the whole thing had been his idea from start to finish.

Bitter darkness now shrouded Bane's days. He stalked through the corridors, and no one spoke to him. He kept training, ruthlessly, counting the days until Ra's Al-Ghul would return and choose his new followers. Bane was certain he would pick Talia—who had come of age—and himself, among a few others of the best. Amilius and his crew were too young, too inexperienced.

At long last, that day dawned. Ra's al Ghul came back, and watched them, studied them, at their training exercises. And in the evening, he walked amongst their ranks and picked for himself the ones that would help him to bring down Gotham.

And he chose everyone. The older apprentices, the new recruits. Talia. And Amilius.

Everyone.

Except Bane.

BBBBB

"If you will not take these items in trade, we have nothing more to discuss," Bane stated, folding his muscled arms as he stared down at the little crooked, mustached man, lit by the dingy light of three oil lamps. The two of them stood inside a low-ceilinged shack that was crowded, floor to ceiling, with hundreds of objects, from frying pans to knives, guns, picture frames, pens, lamps, clothes, utensils, buckets, clocks, instruments, maps, bags, jewelry, curtains, boxes, charms and figurines. The little wrinkled man, wearing layered rags, hunched over a low, battered desk that stood between them, and glanced up at Bane with his narrowed black eyes.

"This bow is very fine, indeed," he said, running a knobby hand over the grain of the hand-carved bow that Bane had laid down on the desk. "But this kettle…"

"What is wrong with it?" Bane demanded. The old man shook his head.

"It is dented."

"It can be grasped by its handle and holds water," Bane said flatly. "What more must a kettle do?"

The old man sighed, biting his lip.

"Very well," he muttered. "Take the coat."

He reached over with both hands and hefted a huge coat up toward Bane—a coat with leather on the outside and sheep's wool on the inside. Bane grabbed it and shrugged it on. It fit him perfectly, hanging down past his knees. He turned up the collar—it snugged around his neck, promising to protect him from the wind.

"Thank you," he acknowledged, and turned to leave.

He had come down out of the mountains today—a rarity for him. The people of this village were aware of the League of Shadows, and helped them with food and supplies, but Bane's height, bearing and mask cut an intimidating figure. This little man in this little shop was the only one willing to stand up and trade with him, rather than running out the back door. Needless to say, the village was not Bane's favorite place.

But today, he would rather be anywhere but back at the fortress.

Today, Talia, Amilius and the other apprentices were undergoing the final test, and receiving their brands. Bane had been politely invited to assist and oversee. He had declined.

Of course, he kept it to himself that he couldn't bear to even be within the same walls. It nauseated him to imagine Amilius' smug smile as he attained the status of a member of the brotherhood. And it chilled him to the bone to think of hot metal searing into Talia's _skin_…

His boot kicked a hard object. It slid across the rough wood floor and hit the bottom of a shelf. Frowning, Bane bent and picked it up.

It was a book. He turned it over. The picture on the cover was faded to nearly nothing. But he could still read the title and author: _Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte. _

"What do you require for this book?" he wondered.

"What book?" the old man asked.

Bane turned back to him, and held it up. The little man squinted at it.

"Oh, nothing," he shrugged. "I cannot read, and my customers have no time for it. I was going to use those pages for kindling."

"I will take it, then," Bane decided. The old man did not object. Bane tucked the small book into the inside pocket of his coat, pushed the door aside and strode out into the snow.

He took his time climbing back up the mountain. Evening was falling, and clouds covered the sky. A restless wind rattled the skeletal trees that lined the narrow, jagged path, as his boots crunched through the ice. He could smell it in the air—it would snow tonight, and heavily. He would need to get inside the fortress before it began.

Still, he did not hurry.

The trek back to the fortress took him several hours. Only a trace of light remained in the west when he began to climb the winding, snow-covered granite steps that led to the lower door of the crouching castle. His breathing in this mask seemed raspier in the heavy silence of winter. He shoved the thick, wooden door open—it creaked—and shut it behind him. He ascended the rest of the way in the pitch dark, his boots scuffing the stone, but he knew the way so well that he needed no light. Besides, darkness had always served him as a powerful ally. He was not afraid of it.

Sound and light reached him as he achieved the landing and turned right toward the wide, wooden gathering hall. He entered, glancing around the support beams to see several new members and old members alike sitting at the long tables eating, reclining by one of the many pit fires on the floor, or perched near windows reading. All were lit by torch and firelight. The shadows in the corners were deepening. The new members looked both weary and exhilarated, their eyes bright, and Bane caught snippets of their excited discussion concerning the trials.

But all of that faded to the background when he stopped, swept the room, and realized he did not see Talia.

Or Amilius.

Bane strode up to a young, blonde-haired man named Aaron—a quick archer and a quiet mind—who was sitting at a table with three other men. Aaron looked up at Bane, met his eyes, and nodded to him carefully.

"Bane."

"Where is Talia?" Bane asked lightly. "I must congratulate her."

"She left with Amilius right after the Teacher left for Egypt," Aaron answered, glancing at the others. "They said they were…"

"—going to climb the Shaft," a man named Raphael finished, snorting and taking a swig of his beer. "Giddy as school kids, both of them. Wanted to celebrate."

Bane frowned hard at him.

"Did they not know a storm is coming?"

"They are members now," a new man called Peter waved it off. "They ought to be able to take care of themselves."

Bane stepped around the table and towered over Peter, who was about to take a drink, but lowered his mug.

"So I suppose it shall be _you _who tells Ra's al Ghul that his _only _daughter has frozen to death," Bane snarled. "And all the while, you remained here. _Drinking_."

Peter stared up at Bane. The inside of Bane's chest burned.

"Look at that snow…" someone behind him commented. Bane turned…

To see a white rainfall of snow through the far window—snow that completely obscured the nearest turret.

The fire in Bane's chest went out—and turned to ice.

BBBBB

All night, Bane paced by the windows. The other members left the hall, though Bane sensed that his words had made them nervous, and they would not sleep. But neither could any of them go even three steps outside.

It was a whiteout. Bane had never seen such snow. And it poured relentlessly, soundlessly, hanging like an opaque curtain around the whole castle.

All night. Until his chest hurt and his eyes ached from straining to see through the darkness. Until he thought he might go mad with the sound of his boots endlessly tapping on the wood.

Around three in the morning, a shaft of light cut his vision.

He halted, jerked his head around—

And strode to the closest window.

Moonlight.

Ice-burdened trees. Edges of silvered mountains.

Complete stillness.

The snow had stopped.

Bane left.

In moments, he was outside, his breath clouding around his head, his feet sinking into the snow up to his knees. He trudged around to the stables—stables that had been converted into storage—and snatched up a pair of snowshoes. He also caught up a bag of supplies—nothing more than flint and steel, assorted knives and hardtack, and set off toward The Shaft.

That was what they called it—naming it after the shaft of an arrow. Because the mountain was so narrow and steep that only the most experienced and daring climbers would even dream of attempting it. And never, _never _under icy or snowy conditions.

Snow billowed out before Bane's snowshoes as his long, powerful strides carried him up, up, between leaning trees, through the shattered moonlight, and toward the foot of the black, craggy Shaft.

He hiked three miles, never stopping, before he finally reached the head of the only path up the mountain. It was swamped with snow, and almost blocked—but he wrested through it.

Upwards he climbed, ascending around the mountain like a spiral staircase, the rock wall to his left, the plummeting black abyss to his right. The clouds retreated, and the full moonlight spilled across him, lighting his way just enough for him to see the fearful edge. The cold bit him, even through this coat, and stung against his bare head.

He had attained the halfway distance when his right foot struck something.

He stopped.

Something lay buried beneath the snow.

Something that was _not _rock.

Bane's heart collapsed.

He fell to his knees and swept the snow off, off, unburying as fast as he could, feeling down through the feathery ice…

His hand met a shoulder. His fingers caught in matted brown hair.

He strangled.

He grabbed the cloth covering the shoulder and tugged.

A man came loose of the snow and tumbled into Bane's arms. A stiff, white-faced, _dead_ man, whose face was covered in frozen blood, and whose hair was plastered to his head with it.

Amilius.

Bane stopped, his eyes wide.

He dropped Amilius.

His heart pounding, Bane stood up and stepped over him…

His gaze darted everywhere at once, searching. Her name snagged in his throat. He dared not call out to her—he might start an avalanche.

A sound.

Low, like the listless moaning of the wind.

Bane listened with every fiber of his being.

Singing.

Below him.

"_Sen bir güzel meleksin  
Her gönülde çiçeksin  
Sen bir güzel meleksin  
Her gönülde dileksin..."_

Bane opened his mouth, and spoke—just loud enough.

"Talia?"

The singing stopped.

Then, a low shuffling, like a bird in a nest, issued from perhaps twenty feet

below.

"Bh…" a breath of voice issued. "Bane…"

Bane immediately found an outcropping, strode to it, and got on his knees. He faced the mountain and noisily slid down against the side of it, holding onto the slick stones with both hands as he allowed himself to slip off the pathway…

A narrow pass stuck out from the side of the mountain, sheltered by mere feet from the snow that had buried Amilius. He planted both snowshod feet as firmly as he could…

And his attention landed on a huddled form lying on her side in the dark.

"Talia?"

"You…You found me?" she whispered.

Bane tore off his coat, knelt down beside her and threw its great, heavy warmth across her. He could feel her shuddering beneath his hands—could see just the edge of her face and hair by the light of the moon.

He dug his hands and arms underneath her and hefted her up, holding her against his chest, wrapping the coat tighter around him. Her head fell against his shoulder—he pressed his cheek to her chilled forehead.

"I have you," he said firmly. "We are going home."

BBBBB

Talia lay on her stomach on the floor, atop a thick bearskin. Her face turned toward the broad mantel—the warm, golden glow of the fire washed over her, calming the shaking in her limbs. She wore nothing—her clothes had been coated in ice—but a fleece blanket and then Bane's coat covered her completely.

Bane sat on her left side, his right leg bent and laid over, his left knee bent and upright. He held a bandage covered in balm over the one bare place on Talia's back: her brand, which had now been damaged and torn, and oozed blood.

They had been resting this way for hours, but the night had only deepened. Bane had watched her spasms slowly calm, and the fear leave her face. Now, she gazed absently at the dancing flames, her deep blue eyes blinking slowly.

Bane let go of the bandage and left it there, gazing at her, saying nothing. He had finally overcome the urge to give in to his own trembling.

But it nearly overwhelmed him again when Talia's forehead twisted.

"He is dead, isn't he?" she whispered.

"He is," Bane muttered. He tilted his head toward her. "What happened?"

She was silent for a long time. Then, sparkling tears welled up in her eyes.

"He…He tried to force himself on me," she gasped.

Bane's jaw locked.

And everything inside him screamed.

"I…I didn't know what he was doing, and then I…" Talia went on, her voice shaking. Her eyes went wide, as if seeing something that was not there. "I had to fight him! But it…It was steep, and cold—I hit him, and…we _fell_…"

She burst out sobbing.

Bane instantly put his hand on her head, then reached out with his other hand and took hold of her fingers. He leaned down toward her, speaking quietly, earnestly.

"I am here," he said. "I am here. Nothing can harm you. Nothing _will _harm you. You are safe."

Her tears ran, her eyes squeezed shut. Bane stroked his fingers through her half-dried hair, traced her temple, and rubbed his thumb against her soft cheek.

Then, he turned and lay down on the floor beside her.

He rested on his left side, facing her, and edged closer, pressing his forehead to hers and sliding his hand down to rest on her neck. The front of his mask touched her brow, but his hand was warm compared to her chilled skin, and so the tautness in her frame eased.

After a long time, her tears stopped flowing, and she took a deep breath, letting her eyes relax and close. Bane ran his thumb back and forth, back and forth, across her cheek. And in a low, almost inaudible tone, he murmured a lullaby—the same lullaby that Talia had been singing in the night. The one that had led him to her.

"_You are a beautiful angel  
You are a flower in every heart  
You are a beautiful angel  
You are a wish in every heart."_

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

_3_

"_All he saw was a monster…"_

_V_

"I am the one who taught you to read—I should make you should read this yourself," Talia admonished with a sigh, propping herself up on a pile of furs and pillows as she flipped through the pages of a weather-beaten book. Bane eased back against a broad oak chest, his side near her head, but her feet were toward the south wall, his toward the west wall. To his left and her right, in a floor-level pit, a healthy evening fire danced and crackled. The rest of the very large, wooden room was fairly quiet and dark—he could hear the wind gust through the high, open upper windows. A few other members of the League of Shadows milled about in the farther reaches of the chamber; talking, sharpening weapons, reading, or working with wood. But many of them were gone. Sent off to Gotham—the infiltration of which would take a very long time. And because of her recklessness on the night of the branding, Talia had been forbidden to go along. Which, for Bane, was the only thing that made Ra's al Ghul's rejection easier.

"Why?" Bane asked, turning his head toward her, his voice echoing and distorting inside the mask. He had worn it for years, and he was almost used to it. Almost.

He lifted an eyebrow at her and crossed his arms.

"Does something trouble you about the upcoming passage?"

She sighed again, lifted the book up and opened it, tilting it so the firelight caught the pages.

"'Catherine Earnshaw,'" Talia read quietly. "'May you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe—I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!'"

Bane sat still. She shut the book, and turned onto her right side and put the book down with a thump, facing the fire and him. She frowned.

"What is it?" Bane asked. She shrugged one shoulder.

"I cannot imagine feeling like that," she admitted. "To be so dependent upon another person that I simply could not live without them."

Unexpectedly, her words hollowed out a portion of Bane's chest. He watched her as she in turn sleepily watched the flames.

"Perhaps…" he ventured, his voice sounding too close to his face. "You would not know it until that person was taken from you."

"If I did feel that way about someone, I would not let them be taken from me," Talia stated. Her voice quieted, and her brow furrowed. "But I shan't feel that way. It would be too dangerous."

Bane cleared his throat, trying to shake off the heavy feeling in his chest.

"Surely you are not _afraid_, Talia al Ghul," he mocked. She twisted so she could see him, and gave him a wry grin.

"What do _you _think?"

"I think you are far too brave for your own good," he answered honestly.

"So says my fearless friend," she countered, eyes sparkling. "Who willfinally get his brand tomorrow."

"You believe I will?" Bane said flatly, staring at the far wall.

"Yes," she answered. "I'm sure that is why my father came back tonight. And why shouldn't you? You can defeat any of the members here."

Bane lifted an eyebrow again.

"Even you?"

"Of course not," she said flippantly, turning onto her back. "I am not a member—I am the heir."

"Ah, of course," Bane replied. "How could I forget?"

"You shouldn't," she said. She covered her mouth and yawned, then let her arm fall down to her side, letting out another deep sigh. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Bane murmured, halfway frowning—almost wishing to bring up the subject of Heathcliff and his foolish sentiments again, just to keep listening to her voice.

In a few moments, she was asleep. She had always been that way—falling almost instantly to sleep in his presence, as if a great lion kept watch over her, and she had nothing to fear.

Bane lay still, running his gaze across her. His chest tightened. He closed his hands to slow fists, and remained quiet.

He sensed him before he saw him—silent as a passing shadow. Bane lifted his head, then sat up—then got to his feet, and gazed over Talia to the tall, bearded man standing near the door. The man with eyes like cold, blue fire.

"Bane," the man greeted him, his voice mild and even.

Bane inclined his head.

"Teacher," he answered.

"I very much regret what I must do," the tall man said. "But I have to ask you to come with me."

Bane's heart staggered. But he showed nothing in his bearing.

He stepped forward, around Talia's sleeping form—and took one last look down at her.

Then, with a sinking feeling in his gut, he followed Ra's al Ghul out of the room.

BBBBB

Icy wind shocked him. The moon cast harsh, sharp light upon the barren, rocky landscape.

Bane stood, utterly alone, in thick winter gear and his great leather-and-wool coat, a large pack of supplies hung from his shoulders. He turned toward the west—toward the place from whence he had been driven. He could no longer hear the motor of the truck that had brought him—carried him for hours through the rocky night, away from the fortress, away from the League of Shadows. Away from Talia.

It had finally happened. The truth of the dread that had been creeping up upon him for years.

The dread that he had told himself, so often, was unfounded.

And yet, when the words left Ra's al Ghul's lips, Bane felt as if he had heard them a hundred times before.

_"You must leave us, Bane. It is apparent to me that your…deformity cannot be overcome, and therefore you can never truly be one of us. And I must confess that, though you are an exceptional fighter, your presence here is a constant thorn in my side, reminding me of the hell to which I abandoned my wife. However, I bear you no ill-will—you have twice saved my daughter's life. And it is because of that debt that I saved yours, and I now set you free. You are still a young man, full of potential. Go out into the world—find your purpose. You must forget about the League of Shadows. And you must forget about her." _

Bane's soul shuddered within him. He drew in a deep, painful breath as he stared, straining, back into the distance. Back toward the fortress, toward the room where she lay sleeping.

"'It is…unutterable…'" Bane rasped, his heart tearing within him. "'I cannot live without my life. I cannot live without my soul.'"

BBBBB

Years, he did not see her.

_Years_.

Bane survived, as he always had. He made many enemies, but he made more alliances. He proved himself useful in numerous ways to numerous powerful men—until he became a powerful man himself. He gave orders, commanded soldiers, coordinated operations. His appearance and bearing prevented him from seeking out any honest work—but if he had taken on such a pursuit, it would have cut him off from that which he valued most:

Information.

Information about the League of Shadows. About Ra's al Ghul.

About her.

And so he listened.

And he planned.

And he hoped.

For _years_.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

_4_

"_I am Necessary Evil…"_

Bane strode through the masses of seedy people that flowed like sewage through the dim, dingy underground streets—noisy, foul-smelling, and leering from beneath hoods or low-pulled hats. He walked with a long, even stride, and those in front of him shifted out of his path. He cut a great swath through their ranks—his mighty, agile form earned him startled, sometimes terrified, glances from the members of the underworld. No one even dared to brush against the sleeves of his worn, leather coat. They knew who he was. Any of them could name him on sight, and no one inquired into his business.

Bane was on the move—alone and unarmed. Yet every motion he made implied a potent and deadly capability.

He had been listening. Listening, as he always did, to the rumbles, the whispers, the rumors that slid and slithered through the dark places of the world. Listened, until one hushed, startled cry rippled through all of the fevered murmurs:

_Ra's al Ghul is dead!_

And then Bane had taken to the streets.

Using every strain of knowledge and considerable influence he had mustered over the years, he had traced down a nearly invisible thread, and followed it to its source. Its source, which now stood mere feet away.

He turned a corner, and ascended a set of narrow stone steps. His boots thudded as he climbed. He made no effort at stealth.

He arrived at a landing, paused, and glanced forward through a partially-open shutter-door into a plain wooden room beyond.

He felt them watching him—from above, behind, all around—though he could not see them. It had been a long time—_ages _to him—but he had no doubt they recognized him.

He ignored them.

Masculine voices issued from the shuttered room. He stepped forward, then lingered in the shadow of the threshold, peering inside.

A group of men, all garbed in a utilitarian fashion, stood or sat around a beaten rectangular table, facing the wall to Bane's right. He only recognized about a third of their scarred, weather-beaten faces. The others were newer, younger members. Their intense, calm gazes did not find him—they watched a young, bearded man who stood apart—a man who addressed someone out of Bane's sight.

It felt like _so long_…

"I understand," the young man said, unblinking. "But the game has now changed. If we proceed, we will be dealing with a man who was once one of our members," he gestured to the others. "One who, single-handedly, has murdered Ra's al Ghul."

"Gotham is rotting from within," answered a clear, calm—_female—_voice.

A voice that sent thrills through Bane's blood.

"Its very core is corrupted," she went on. "And the plague that infects it is already spreading. My father would want us to continue, to pursue our purpose to its end."

"We agree, of course," a man with long black hair and piercing green eyes—an assassin named Ghil-hal—said he stepped forward. "Our uncertainty lies with you."

Bane shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tilting his head. Waiting.

"What do you mean?" the woman asked.

"You have trained with our brotherhood," the Ghil-hal went on, stepping slightly past the bearded young man. "And we know you are no stranger to pain. But you have never led us into battle—never even accompanied us on a mission."

Murmurs of agreement rustled through the ranks. Bane lifted his chin.

"My father made me his heir," the woman said firmly. "He bestowed upon me ancient practices and knowledge he shared with no one else."

"Book learning does not make you a leader," Ghil-hal snapped back. "And it does not make you fit to spearhead one of the most dangerous and delicate operations we have ever undertaken."

"Ghil-hal, my friend," Bane rumbled, his booming voice echoing as he shoved the shutter-door aside and strode into the room. "It sounds to me as if you are _afraid_." Bane pinned him with a terrible stare. "Afraid—or in possession of a streak of _treachery_."

All of them twitched—their attention snapped to him.

"Bane," another, _Aaron_, let loose his name as if on accident.

"Good to see you, Aaron," Bane said robustly, nodding to him as he continued walking in. He felt _her_, standing off to his right and behind.

He did not look at her.

"Treachery?" Ghil-hal spat, eyes blazing. "Who are _you _to come here without our invitation and make accusations? _You! _You were disgraced and excommunicated by Ra's al Ghul himself!"

"You have made another mistake, Brother," Bane drew himself up and hooked his hands through the vest beneath his coat. "I was not excommunicated, nor was I disgraced. I was secretly sent by our esteemed master out into the world to gather resources, build alliances, convert more warriors to our cause." He turned, and addressed them all. "To make preparations, in the event that this last assault upon Gotham failed."

_She _moved behind him. Stepped forward, to stand even with him—several feet away. Bane did not turn.

"Are you saying that Ra's al Ghul anticipated failure?" the bearded young man asked Bane, eyes narrowed.

"Of course not," Bane replied. "If you will recall, I used the word _preparations_. Only a fool goes into battle without first counting the cost and insuring against all possible outcomes." He looked again at the rest of them. "Gotham stands upon the tipping point. It just requires the proper push."

"No one is contesting the fact that Gotham must be brought down," Ghil-hal said coldly, turning his focus from Bane to the one standing off to the side of him. Ghil-hal stepped forward, to stand in front of her. And finally, Bane turned…

And laid eyes upon her for the first time.

He could not look away.

Lovely and striking and fierce—she stood like a pillar, wearing black, her arms folded, her long, thick hair done back in a braid. Her blue eyes sparked at Ghil-hal, and she did not step back. She just lifted her face, and stared icily at him.

Ghil-hal smirked.

"I simply know that I am not alone when I say…" Ghil-hal murmured. "That the League of Shadows should not be commanded by a little _girl._" He ran his gaze up and down her form. "No matter how pleasing her face and her figure." And he reached out, and touched her cheek.

Bane hit him.

An eyeblink of movement—a flash of his fist—

And Ghil-hal's face broke with a sickening _crack_.

Blood flew.

Ghil-hal crashed to the floor and laid still, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Everyone froze.

Bane shook out his hand, then rubbed his knuckles and looked briskly around at the other men.

"I am certain that he _was _alone," Bane declared. "I am counting upon it. For another duty with which our beloved master charged me was the protection of his heir. I plan to fulfill that duty against our enemies…" He raised his eyebrows pointedly. "For I truly do not believe I will ever be required to come to her aid whilst she is in the presence of her brothers."

Aaron swallowed.

The rest of their eyes watched him, unblinking.

Bane took a breath, paying no heed to the body on the floor.

"You see," Bane continued. "Our plan to collapse Gotham cannot succeed without her. She holds the key, the final answer, to that wicked city's undoing."

He turned, and attended to her.

And again, he waited.

And bit back that underhanded, burning hope.

She did not look at him. But she lifted her head, and addressed the others.

"There are plans for a nuclear reactor to be built beneath the streets of Gotham," she said. "A reactor that can, if necessary, be turned into a nuclear bomb. My father has given me the tools and the resources to enter Gotham as one of its citizens, and ensure that this reactor is built."

For a long while, the other men considered.

Then, they nodded.

The tension in Bane's chest loosened.

And Talia turned, and left the room.

BBBBB

Bane remained among his former brethren for almost an hour, reacquainting himself with their ways of speech, the ebbs and flows of their dynamics and conversation. They exchanged rousing stories of conquests and captures, of Bane's travels and the discoveries he had made. They spoke in detail about the brothers they had lost during the failed raid on Gotham—and the one who had foiled them: a former pupil of Ra's al Ghul's named Bruce Wayne. Bane listened, absorbing everything, but caring little for it.

And all the while, an irrepressible force pulled him toward the door.

At long last, when food was brought in and the men began to eat and get drunk, Bane withdrew, stepped out through that door, and followed a long, thin, dark hallway toward a door that stood slightly ajar.

He did not disguise his footsteps. He did not wish to be covert. He wanted her to hear him coming.

He pushed the door aside, and looked in.

It was a small room, longer lengthwise than it was deep. Talia sat with her back to him at an ornate desk, a single bright candle alight upon it as her careful hands worked on a small weaving. The rest of the room was hung with darkness.

Bane paused. His heart beat fast—but she seemed utterly calm. He stayed where he was—for all of a sudden, he could summon nothing to say.

This was not what he expected. He had imagined their reunion hundreds, thousands of times. He had imagined…

What?

_What _had he imagined?

He swallowed, suddenly feeling weak. Ashamed. Hollow.

"You lied."

Her quiet voice entered the silent space between them. And it was not an accusation. It was an observation.

"I did," he confessed, managing to summon enough volume. She did not turn.

"I thought so," she said. "My father had many flaws, but he never deceived me. Not once." She reached over and picked up a long, thick cord. Bane caught sight of her profile—soft in the little light.

"He told me he could not abide your deformity any longer," she said. "That your presence among us tormented him with memories of my mother. And so he banished you."

"Yes," Bane whispered roughly. "He did."

Talia thoughtfully wound the cord around her fingers.

A sharp, twisting sensation started in Bane's chest and wouldn't release.

"And now he, my only family, is dead," she murmured. "Murdered. By a _real _traitor."

Bane said nothing.

Talia canted her head.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?" Bane wondered.

"How did you know I was aware of the reactor?" she clarified.

"I didn't," he admitted. "But you have always been a step ahead of everyone else, Talia al Ghul. I knew you would supply them with something."

She halfway turned, but still did not look at him.

"But you _do _believe what you said about Gotham. And about me."

"Yes," Bane answered, his throat tightening. "Every word."

"Then you will help me?"

Her hopeful question lifted into the air.

Bane took a low breath.

"I will do whatever you ask."

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

_5_

"_His only crime…"_

Bane had flung him to the metal floor. The cave rang with the sound.

He had shattered his helmet with his fist as icy water tumbled.

He had set off the deafening explosions that knocked the floor out of his beloved armory, letting the League men climb up into it like a swarm of hornets.

He had snapped his back with his knee—broken him like kindling. And now, Bruce Wayne lay at the bottom of the Pit—the very Pit where Bane's anguish had begun. And this time, Wayne's anguish would pick up where Bane's had left off—no. Bane would perpetuate his own agony within Bruce Wayne. Bane would do as he wished with the city that Wayne cherished. Just as Wayne had done with Talia.

And Bane would make Wayne's heart scream in the exact same way.

BBBBB

"Bring her to me," Bane ordered, then turned and left the tall-ceilinged, damp, chilly trial hall, sensing his men escort Talia out right behind him in the sight of Lucius Faux, among other important resistance operatives. Her steps were unsteady, unsure. Her cover truly was flawless. Bane lowered his head.

Five months had seemed like a long time to Bane when he had ordered the reactor core removed. Mobs of criminals from Black Gate had joined his men, ordinary citizens had looted the innards out of the offices and homes formerly belonging to the wealthy and corrupt, and the kangaroo courts had only recently begun to calm their frenzy. Their plan was working without hitch, without obstacle. And Bane believed in it now, more than ever, after all he had seen of the people's decadence and selfishness.

Autumn had faded into winter and snow had fallen, covering this dingy, dirty, black-and-gray city in a fitting white shroud.

And the Batman—_Bruce Wayne_—lay with a broken back in the bottom of a pit, halfway across the world. A reality which made Bane clench his teeth in satisfaction.

But, though he did not even admit it to himself—he missed Talia.

She was not gone, of course—she moved to and fro amongst the citizens of Gotham, executing her flawless charade as the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, having completely won the trust of all of the resistance fighters. She was still very much _here_.

But that familiar light had vanished from her eyes. In the brief moments Bane had accidentally caught her glance, his heart fell silent. He did not recognize her. And he fought against acknowledging that he _hadn't _recognized her since he had helped her assert her authority after her father's death. She had become driven, cold—obsessed. There would be no way out of this in the end. No escape. Talia had seen to that.

And now Bane watched as time slipped like sand through an hourglass.

He strode down a long, arched hallway, winding a long, thick cord around and around his fingers. He turned to the right and entered what had once been a library—dark wood book shelves covered all of the walls, except the eastern wall, which was lined with tall windows. Some of the books remained upon the shelves, but many of them lay strewn and gutted all over the floor, their pages rustling around his feet like autumn leaves. The hanging lamps had been shot out, so the only light came from the cloudy, snowy day outside. It smelled like dust, and frost.

Bane crossed to the far corner, turned and leaned back against a battered desk, a window near his left elbow. He kept winding the cord between his fingers, watching its movement as one of his men shoved Talia through and shut the door. Bane let out a short sigh. This was yet another piece of the charade they must maintain—they would have to remain in here together for a few minutes, so the resistance would believe she had been interrogated.

Finally, he lifted his face and looked at her. She stepped in slowly, her shoes crunching the paper, turning slowly to gaze at the bookshelves. She wore dark, dressy clothing—so different from her homespun garb of long ago…

"I remember what a treasure a single book once was," she murmured, reaching up to caress one of the spines on the shelf. "Only savages would do this to so many beautiful things."

Bane didn't answer. Talia wandered toward the desk where he stood, not looking at him, but at the room.

Then, in a smooth, natural and startling movement, she stepped right up to Bane and slipped under his right arm and beneath his thick coat.

She pressed herself to his right side and wrapped her arms around his waist. He wasn't wearing his bullet-proof vest—just a warm black shirt—so it was with sharp, heightened senses that he felt her arms, her hands, slip around him and tighten. He dropped the cord. She laid her head against his great chest, nuzzled into his shirt, and let out a long sigh.

"I am so tired of being cold," she whispered.

Bane stood, paralyzed, his throat clamped shut. He was afraid to move, to even breathe—though he could feel her every breath lift against his side.

Then, hesitantly, he lowered his arms and lightly encircled her, wrapping the coat around her.

She turned her face into him a bit—he sensed her close her eyes.

"I've always loved the smell of this coat," she commented absently—and he felt her curl her fingers around creases in his shirt. "I remember when you brought it back with you."

Bane's brow furrowed, and he rubbed his thumb up and down across the coat, across her shoulder. His eyes wandered over the flow of her hair.

"You were speaking of books," he said, keeping his rough voice low. "Do you remember the one I gave you? The one you were reading to me the night your father sent me away."

Talia was silent for a long time. But she did not stiffen against him. Instead she leaned further into his chest—weary.

"Yes," she murmured.

"What was it called?" Bane asked.

"_Wuthering Heights_."

"I was always curious about what happened in the end," Bane said. "Did you ever finish it?"

Her fingers moved against his side.

"No," she said quietly. "I never did."

Bane lifted his face to the half-empty bookshelf across the room. His pulse picked up—he had no doubt she could feel it against her head. But she didn't withdraw.

So, he moved his left hand against her forearm, and loosened it from around his waist. She let him. Then, Bane interlaced his fingers through her slender ones, lifted her hand, and held it against his heart.

"Talia…" he said, his gaze flickering. "I love you."

She rubbed her thumb against his chest.

"I know you do," she whispered.

She said no more.

And in the extended silence that followed, Bane's forehead twisted, and a terrible, penetrating, impossible pain ached through his ribs. A pain that remained with him long after she had left the room, taking every bit of warmth along with her.

BBBBB

Bane's head swam. His body had moved automatically, getting up off the marble floor to find a fallen gun and a rope, then wrapping it around Bruce Wayne's neck and hefting him up off the ground. He couldn't see where he was going or what he was doing. His vision blurred with tears.

Memories, vivid as life, flickered and flashed in front of his mind—as new as if they had happened yesterday. All of them churned up by Talia's calm, smooth words as she had gazed down into his eyes—as he gazed back, and could see nothing but her.

Eleven minutes.

As he blinked, and more tears slid down his face, Bane silently prayed a prayer of thanks for the existence of Jim Gordon, and his stubborn persistence. Because that stubborn persistence had bought Bane eleven minutes. Eleven more minutes to look at her, to hear her voice…to forget…

Wait.

What was she saying?

She wasn't staying.

She was leaving, to secure the truck. To make certain the bomb detonated.

Talia rose to her feet. She told Bane not to kill Bruce Wayne—she stared down at Wayne with blazing eyes. Bane barely heard her order—and for a moment, didn't understand.

She turned.

She stepped up to Bane—gazed into his eyes.

The world stood still.

And then, her soft, brilliant eyes fixed upon him—and only him—and she reached up, and rested her fingers on his mask.

And all at once, in that suspended moment, Bane imagined his mask slipping loose, falling away and hitting the marble floor with a _clack_…

Letting her feather-light fingers come down and touch his chin, his bare lips, and the end of his nose.

An electric thrill shot across his lips, his tongue and down his throat.

And suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the impulse to kiss her.

To let go of the tether that bound Bruce Wayne and take her face in both hands—to lean down and meet her mouth with his. To kiss her harder and deeper than any man ever had. To pull her slender body into his chest—to feel her give in, surrender to that which he _knew_ was buried within her somewhere, and wrap her arms tight around his neck. To feel her answer him—move her mouth feverishly with his as he lifted her up off the ground. To spend the last eleven minutes of his existence forgetting Gotham and Wayne and everyone else in the world, with one arm wrapped around her waist and the other hand tangled through her chestnut hair as he memorized the sweet taste of her lips and the smell of her skin as their hearts thundered against each other…

But he couldn't.

He couldn't.

Her fingers lay against the unfeeling metal of his mask. He stood, paralyzed, staring back at her. Back into those eyes of blue flame.

"Goodbye, my friend," she said quietly—

—and she turned, and left him there.

He listened to the sound of her footsteps against the marble. He watched her braid swing with her gait.

The world would be gone—vanished in a silent flash of light in just eleven minutes.

And he would spend them without her.

The men outside flanked her—glanced back at him, their eyes filled with silent awe and reverent terror as he met their gazes.

Bane could feel Wayne's fear tremble up through the rope that held him captive. Bane's hand closed tighter around that rope. He struggled to breathe.

Bane had been feared all his life.

It was good to be feared. It had always served him well.

But, as he watched her disappear through the door and into the whispering snow, and the span of his life stretched out before him…

He acknowledged that it would have been better to be loved.

FIN


End file.
